Deadly Harm

by Owen Mullen

  And she’d stopped locking her door; a good sign. It meant the fears that had driven her to run from the refuge were under control.

  At night from her bedroom, Mackenzie could see Caitlin standing in the shadows, quietly enjoying a last smoke before bed.

  A trip to the seaside before the opportunity was gone would blow the blues away. How good would that be? She hadn’t seen Caitlin yet and found her where she knew she would, in the garden, gazing at the Campsies. Mackenzie said, ‘If you stare at the hills long enough, they change shape.’

  ‘Do they, I hadn’t noticed?’

  Caitlin lit a second cigarette, inhaled deeply then blew smoke into the air. Her voice was quiet. ‘Sometimes I can’t believe it.’

  ‘Can’t believe what?’

  A chill breeze rustled the trees behind the greenhouse. Caitlin pulled her cardigan round her. ‘This. My new life. Feel stupid for not doing it sooner.’

  ‘Easy to say when you’re coming out the other side and are surrounded by people who care about you. Not so easy when you’re in the middle of it.’

  ‘No, I suppose not. I just wish…’

  Mackenzie gave her a playful nudge. ‘It’s going to get a lot better than this, so get used to being happy. Anyway, I wanted to tell you my idea for next weekend.’

  On the pavement outside Barlinnie Prison, Malkie took “the makings” from his pocket to roll a fag, grinning humourlessly. Kirsty had said she’d meet him. Promises to a man in the Bar-L meant nothing. Tell him anything, so you could. Until he got out.

  He shook his fair hair and cursed. ‘Where the fuck is she?’

  Dressed in jerkin, jeans and trainers, Malkie Boyle was indistinguishable from any twenty-four-year-old guy from the East End of the city. Except today he was a lot more than even he realised; a thug about to graduate to killer.

  Kirsty was the least of his worries. Later he’d set her right about her non-appearance and a couple of other gripes yet to occur to him. Not before he’d settled the hash of the nosey bastard on the landing who’d called the police and got him lifted. That old fucker could have no complaints; in future he’d mind his own business. Malkie played the cigarette between his fingers to even out the tobacco and examined it critically. Not bad but not great. In the Big House he’d seen a con do it one-handed. That kind of dexterity took years of practice. He hadn’t been a guest of Her Majesty long enough to master it – though he would. No danger.

  His slight build belied the violence natural to him. The face told a different tale: on his forehead above his eye, chib marks carved into his flesh and a thin scar – a badge of honour in his world, acquired during a dispute over a friendly game of pool – ran from his ear to his neck. A second prize his grandfather would have called it.

  Malkie met him just once in his whole life, twelve years earlier when his mother dragged him to the council house in Castlemilk where he lived; there had been snow on the ground and Christmas trees in the windows, so it must’ve been December, probably around the time his father bailed on them. The bastard had picked his moment, right enough. Christmas, for fuck’s sake!

  Billy Cunningham was a legend who’d terrorised Glasgow in the 1980s. In his heyday, sub-post offices and sawn-off shotguns were his trademark. Knives, hammers, clubs and the like, he considered the tools of reckless youths and angry men. Serious criminals did what they did for money and used guns.

  Malkie could still see his mother, older than her years, breathing clouds of cigarette smoke into the cold air, waiting for the door to open. She’d been nervous, squeezing his arm too tight, drawing on the stubby fag between her fingers in shallow anxious puffs. Two memories stayed with him: the emptiness in the man’s eyes when he saw who was there, and the rattle in his mother’s chest under her cheap coat. She’d lasted another five winters, but the cancer was in her that day, leaving nothing except a few photographs and a book given to her for coming first in her year in English. The only reference to the father who’d shunned her was a faded scrap of newspaper with a report of the final day of his trial and an artist’s impression of him in the dock, folded and slipped inside the book’s back cover. Grim resignation was etched in black and white on Billy Cunningham’s face as he and two other men listened as a judge sentenced them. What purpose was served by keeping it – he’d done fuck all for her in life? In spite of everything, she must have loved the bastard. Malkie knew why he’d hung on to her stuff: it was all there was.

  During their meeting, Billy showed no interest in his only grandson, barely looking at him. Why she’d needed to see him was a mystery, because – even to the boy he’d been that day – it was clear Billy wanted nothing to do with them. In the lounge, the conversation between the adults had been brief; his mother cried, whatever she’d asked rejected. Before they left she’d gone to the toilet and Malkie was left alone with the stranger who was his flesh and blood. His grandfather lowered his voice and gave the bewildered boy the benefit of his experience.

  ‘You’re a Boyle, don’t let me down. Get your thinking straight and never settle for second prize in anything.’

  The only words he’d ever said directly to him.

  His grandson hadn’t forgotten: his thinking was straight.

  The first priority, more pressing than sex, was a drink. Plenty of people would be keen to ale him up on his first day out. Mates would welcome him like a returning hero, listen to his war stories, hanging on to every exaggerated word in exchange for a chance to spin yarns of their own.

  ‘How was it?’

  He’d shrug casually without answering.

  ‘Run across anybody?’

  ‘As a matter of fact… yeah.’

  In an hour it would be like he’d never been away – big fish like Sean Rafferty would be spoken of in hushed tones in contrast to the raucous laughter over some nobody losing an eye in a dark alley. When he was mellow enough to be told, the rumours about his woman would come, whispered in his ear while they watched his expression harden, his jaw tighten.

  ‘Sorry, Malkie,’ they’d say, not sorry at all. ‘Thought you should know.’

  He’d give them the strongman reaction they wanted, quietly vowing to cut the balls off whoever had rattled the arse off her. Then they’d buy a cargo of beer and wine, score some dope and go to somebody’s flat – sit on the floor or a busted couch and smoke and drink until they passed out.

  It was a ritual he’d seen before. Been on both sides. Told the lies. Done the whispering.

  This was his life.

  Malkie stuck a roll-up in the corner of his mouth and started walking.

  It was good to be back.

  10

  His mates were where he’d expected them to be, anchored to a corner of the bar. Three of them. Rough young men like him. When he came through the door, they cheered and shook his hand. Doing three months in the Big House for assaulting a copper was an achievement. Not major like GBH. An achievement nevertheless.

  They crowded round, grinning like idiots. ‘You’re lookin’ great. How was it?’

  Malkie saw the hero-worship in their eyes and gave the answer they were expecting – the only answer anyone would ever get out of him on the subject of jail-time. ‘Easy-peasy.’

  The four of them joined in. ‘Japanesy.’

  The laughter faded. One of them nudged his elbow. ‘What’re you drinkin’?’

  ‘Cider and whisky.’

  His pal signalled to the barman. ‘You’ll be out of your box.’

  Malkie smiled. ‘So?’

  The rest of the pub was aware of what was going on. Drinks started to arrive, acknowledged by an imperceptible nod. Soon he had a line of “wee goldies” in front of him. Malkie threw them back, emptying the dregs into his cider, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, breathing heavily from the fire in his belly.

  ‘Did you come across McCann?’

  ‘Nope, they’d moved him to Shotts two days before I arrived.’

  ‘Didn’t know.’

  ‘Yeah,
rubbish for his mother having to travel out there. Fucking miles away. Any of you bump into Kirsty?’

  The friends hid behind their pints. Something was wrong. ‘That a no? Spit it out.’

  ‘She’s gone, Malkie. Sorry to have to break it to you.’

  He put down the whisky in his hand, growling questions. ‘Gone? What do you mean gone? Gone where?’

  ‘Social took her and the baby. Heard about it yesterday.’

  ‘When was this?’

  His mate shrugged. ‘Not sure. Wednesday, maybe. The dirty bastards got to her.’

  She’d said she’d be waiting for him. She’d lied.

  ‘So where is she now?’

  ‘Do yourself a favour. Let it go. If you don’t, you’ll end up back inside.’

  Malkie felt his chest tighten. His hands closed into fists. ‘Are you bloody deaf? I’m asking where she is.’

  He grabbed the guy by the throat and threw him against the wall, their faces inches apart, his breath as sour as the welcome home party had become. The words hissed from between Malkie’s gritted teeth. ‘Tell me before I snap your fucking neck.’

  The lift smelled of cat piss, sweat, and stale cigarette smoke. On the twelfth floor, Malkie Boyle staggered out, wild-eyed and mucky drunk. The landing was deserted. Not surprising at this time, although he’d no idea what time that was. Every door in the tower block looked the same but a ragged hollow cavity gouged into the frame set one of them apart – he’d made it with a claw hammer one time when she wouldn’t let him in. Eventually she’d reneged and been sorry; he’d seen to that.

  This was his home, or at least it had been. Where he’d lived until they’d taken him away, kicking and screaming, and charged him with breach of the peace and assault. Thirteen weeks – it seemed longer.

  She wasn’t there. But he knew where she was. He booted the door, cursing at the top of his voice. ‘Bitch! Fucking bitch! Fucking bitch!’

  Malkie was sweating. He wiped saliva from the corners of his mouth and tried to calm down. Kirsty would keep – he’d get to her next. The first order of business was to deal with the bastard who’d caused it: the nosey bugger across the landing. The old man’s name came to him through an alcohol haze: Dines, that was it.

  Coming here earlier would’ve been better; free drink had stuck Malkie’s feet to the carpet. In between sessions they’d gone to a house, listened to music and smoked joints. Girls appeared from somewhere: dull-faced Barbies who’d chewed gum and chain-smoked and wore sweet flowery scent that made him gag. Malkie remembered trying and failing to have sex with a redhead called Tracy or Trisha or some bloody thing, before falling asleep on an unmade bed, waking up with his trousers at his ankles.

  What a fucking day this had turned out to be.

  He pressed the lift button, hearing the rumble as it climbed the shaft. When it arrived he sent it back down and flattened himself against the wall. Malkie was very drunk, but the animal in him was sharp. Alcohol heightened his feral instincts; he cleared his head and held his breath.

  He didn’t have long to wait.

  A shuffling, then a bolt being sprung told him his performance had worked. The door edged cautiously open, just far enough for a rheumy eye to stare from the darkness. Malkie leapt forward: his shoulder met the door and he fell on top of the man in the wheelchair behind it.

  Eddie Dines was eighty-four, the last of the original residents. In 1969 he’d escaped a tenement in Dennistoun and moved to the high flats with his new wife. They were young and it was a good place to stay back then. If they’d had children it might’ve been different. But his wife was gone now and he was crippled with MS, yet he wasn’t letting druggies and pushers have it all their own way. Calling the police had been an easy decision; he didn’t regret it – the guy that wee girl was shacked up with was bad news. Him shouting and her and the baby crying was a regular event. So he’d put a stop to it.

  Malkie snarled and punched the wrinkled face, putting everything he had into it, savouring every blow. The old man’s arms poked from the sleeves of his pyjamas, liver-spotted and thin. He raised them in a futile attempt to defend himself. His spectacles broke, cutting a deep gash across the bridge of his nose. Warm blood ran into his eyes. Suddenly he couldn’t see. Malkie grabbed his ankles, swollen and discoloured, and dragged him like a rag doll into the lounge, surprised by how little he weighed.

  ‘Please! Please!’

  ‘Too late for please, Granddad.’

  Malkie tore the telephone from its socket and beat him with it even after he was unconscious.

  When he was done, Malkie collapsed on the couch, panting like a dog on a hot day. The old fucker had asked for it, hadn’t he?

  One less to deal with.

  Kirsty was in bed, but she wasn’t asleep. With so much going on, how could she? Alison had settled easily and was sound in the cot next to her, unaware of the drama going on around her. There would be no memory, no recollection, no baggage to drag through her life, only questions she’d hesitate to ask. One day, fourteen or fifteen years from now, her mother would tell her how they’d hid like fugitives from her father. Like all teenagers, she wouldn’t get it. Maybe even blame her. Call her a fool for having had anything to do with a scumbag.

  When she was old enough to have made mistakes of her own, then she’d understand.

  The wind rattled the windowpane and Kirsty opened her eyes. It would take more than a couple of nights to get used to the shadows in her new surroundings.

  The flat was temporary, the social worker said. Just until they got something permanent sorted. The previous day, a man and a woman had called to make sure she was okay and had everything she needed. They’d smiled too much, white toothy annoying smiles, to reassure her she’d done the right thing. Not necessary. Kirsty was sure about that and wished she’d done it sooner.

  But it was hard not to think. Hard not to worry. Malkie would’ve been released. She pictured him in a filthy squat, some tart with her face in his crotch, and later, sniggering with his idiot mates like he didn’t have a care in the world – didn’t have a daughter.

  Kirsty hadn’t thanked the policeman. Anybody else would’ve given up. Not him. He’d ignored her insults and her truculence and stayed with it. But it had been the woman – Mackenzie – who’d persuaded her to put her faith in Social Services. And, at last, Kirsty was talking to somebody who’d been where she’d been and knew the crazy mix of fear and confusion she was going through. In the darkness, she blushed at begging for a place for her and Alison in the refuge. That would’ve been a dream come true. Never mind. They were here. Kirsty closed her eyes and finally went to sleep.

  When she woke the wind had died down. Alison must have turned over. Perhaps she was hungry. From behind her a cold hand slipped under the covers and cupped her breast, squeezing the nipple, hurting it. Kirsty cried out. This couldn’t be happening. Mackenzie promised they’d be safe.

  safe as houses

  A wet tongue traced the edge of her ear, the voice thick with wine, whispering. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t find you?’

  The city was deserted. Malkie had no idea what time it was or how long he’d been walking. He’d seen a taxi with its FOR HIRE light on, and ducked into the shadows until it passed. Standing in the darkness watching it go by, he shivered. The dope and the alcohol had worn off, neutralised by the adrenaline surges, leaving him tired enough to lie down on the ground and go to sleep. The idea amused him; he ran a hand through his matted hair. Matted with what? He could guess. Under a street lamp he stopped to make a roll-up and noticed his fingers, black in the harsh light, sticky with blood.

  Hurting the neighbour had always been on the cards. That night or some other night. He had no regrets – his thinking was straight: the cripple had grassed him big time and got what he’d deserved. Maybe he’d imagined the wheelchair would give him immunity. Now he knew different – if he knew anything at all.

  Malkie stopped to pee, swaying on the balls of his feet at the kerb,
watching the steaming arc peak and die. Further along the road, a gang of marauding youths, fifteen or sixteen years old and looking for trouble, clocked him coming and fanned out on the pavement to block his path. Two of them drained the last of the cider and tapped the empty bottles ominously in their palms.

  Fucking idiots. He could take them with one hand tied behind his back.

  Closer, they saw the blood, like Apache warpaint smeared on his face, thought better of it and crossed the road. When they were well away, one of them found the courage to yell, ‘Wanker!’

  Malkie shook his head. At least they’d had the sense to realise they were out of their depth.

  Malkie took no responsibility for the mayhem he’d left: Kirsty was to blame. It was all down to her. If she’d kept her word, met him like she’d promised, it would’ve gone another way. Not for the neighbour, his number was up the night he’d called the police – but she’d still be alive. Her and the cripple had two things in common, two things there was no going back from – they’d both betrayed him. And they were both dead.

  His screams and the sound of the chair crashing against the cripple’s head were crystal. After that the curtain closed, memory was a broken mirror, fragment piled on shattered fragment, each carrying a piece of the picture. He remembered tip-toeing to the side of Kirsty’s bed, listening to the gentle rise and fall of her breathing, for a second tempted to strip his clothes off, slide under the clothes and lose himself in her.

  Maybe that’s what he should’ve done. Instead he’d whispered, knowing she’d hear him and waken. Even then it wasn’t too late. One word – the right word – might have saved her. It hadn’t come. She lay still. The moment passed. He’d felt the hammer’s wooden handle smooth against his skin and the weight on the other end – the cripple wouldn’t have much use for it. The dull echo of iron against bone filled his head. The shades came down. The blows fell before she had a chance to lie to him – two, then three, then… nothing.